


Dawn

by hellacluttered



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, F/M, Fluff, PTSD, Sam chisolm - Freeform, mag7 - Freeform, pre- Rose Creek, the magnificent seven - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 05:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10550674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellacluttered/pseuds/hellacluttered
Summary: “You were running from something yourself last night,” Sam commented.Goodnight nodded slowly. “I was.”“Did you escape?”“It’s hard to escape yourself,” Goodnight said. “Seems only death achieves that, and I’ve been running from that too.”“I don’t know a single man who lived through that war and came out quite whole,” Sam said.“Did you?” Goodnight asked.“I wasn’t in the first place,” Sam replied. His gaze was contemplative as it rested on the worn floorboards of the porch.No family… Goodnight couldn’t piece together the story yet, but he could begin to connect the details. This man knew loss all too well.





	

**Author's Note:**

> All right, here’s the sequel to One Thousand Miles :D this has been kind of a pet project for me and I’m thinking about doing a part 3 and bringing in Billy and stuff. We shall see :)

    “Where should we live?” Goodnight asked as he lay with his head in his wife’s lap in front of the fire in the library as they so often did. The heat seeped straight through his still-weary limbs to his bones and he was utterly limp and content.

    “Hmm… New Orleans?” she asked and he rolled onto his back to look up at her.  

    “New Orleans?” he repeated. “That’s my home, not yours.”

    “Those are the same thing now. I’ll go if you want to.”

    He smiled. “You’re too generous, you know that?”

    “You’re one to talk,” she teased, running her fingers gently through his newly-cut short hair.

    “We could stay here, live downtown.”

    “You’d do that?” she asked, a tender expression in her eyes.

    “Of course,” he said. “I don’t mind where I am, so long as it’s with you.”

    She smiled and he sighed contentedly, closing his eyes. He still had not readjusted to the comfy, relaxed life at the Cox manor, or the lack of a schedule dictating every moment of the day. With no strict regimentation keeping him distracted, his thoughts wandered far more freely, and he knew it was only Eliza’s company and patient comforting keeping him sane, and even that, just barely. He woke up in cold sweats in the night sometimes of his own accord and sometimes by Eliza’s hand, panicked and tangled in the sheets, and on nights like that he rarely slept again, only pretending to so Eliza would go back to sleep.

    “Let’s figure it out later,” Eliza said finally, “You need to get some sleep; I know you didn’t get much last night, Goody.”

    “I’ve gone much longer on much less sleep,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me, my dear.”

    “I can’t help that, but I’ll try,” she said.

    A shot rang out somewhere in the distance, a hunter, and Goodnight stiffened, images sliding behind his eyes in increasingly rapider succession, every one unique but a single thread unifying them into a horrifying art display- death. Eliza’s hand squeezed his, her gentle voice breaking through the haze of his thoughts like a sunbeam through fog, but her comforting words couldn’t dispel the terror in his head. “Eliza?” he said, his voice coming out quiet and rough.

    “Yes?”

    “I need a drink,” he said, sitting up. “I’m sorry. I’ll be back later.”

    “All right,” she said, standing likewise and kissing his cheek, her gaze filled with sympathy. “I’m sorry, Goody.”

    “Nothing for you to apologize for, _mon chéri,_ ” he said, managing to force a smile. “I’ll be back soon.”

* * *

    He urged the horse to a gallop, her flanks heaving against his legs, the metal in her tack clinking as they bolted down the road toward town. Riding brought back its own host of memories, but still, riding fast helped leave a few behind. He slowed as he reached the edge of town. For now, it felt that the dams in his mind had been strengthened enough to hold until alcohol weakened the onslaught they held back; he wondered if he would ever cease to need them, if the threat of a flood would ever lastingly diminish.

   He dismounted when he reached the saloon, tying his horse up outside, and walked in, pleased to find it rather empty. The more people there were, the higher chance there was of war stories being recounted, and if those came up, Goodnight would leave.

   “‘Evening, Mr. Robicheaux,” the bartender said as he sat down on one of the barstools.

   “‘Evening, Jim,” he replied wearily.

   “Your usual?”

    “Yes, sir,”

    “Coming right up.”

    Goodnight could feel the pressure of eyes on him from behind, sensed the tingling sensation along his spine, his shoulder blades trying to pull together, but he was too tired and distracted to bother to see who it was.

    “Here you are, sir,” Jim said, sliding him a small glass of brandy.

    Goodnight nodded in thanks and raised the glass to his lips. The large draught of alcohol went down like fire, scalding his throat and heating his insides in a crippled imitation of how Goodnight had felt around Eliza before he broke, still a ghost even of how he felt now. She looked at him differently now, he knew that much. He didn’t like her to pity him.

    He took another sip from his glass, checking his pocket to make sure he had enough money on him to afford a refill. He did, and soon he was ready for it.

    The alcohol blurred the harsh edges of his worries, softening them a little as they cut into his hopes, dulled the wriggling, creeping feeling of paranoia that always hovered at the edges of his senses, never truly letting him believe he was safe. He drank until the pictures that flashed through his mind no longer came into focus, and then he stood, paid, and left, reeling slightly as he went out the door.

    “Goodnight Robicheaux,” a voice called behind him, the distinct Northern accent sounding his name out in hard angles rather than the soft curves Goodnight spoke it with.

    He stopped and turned, leaning casually against one of the posts supporting the porch, ready to go for his gun if necessary. Three men had just emerged from the saloon. He recognized them from a table in the corner, where they had been quietly drinking, as he recalled. All three were strapping, brawny, tall men, all armed, and none seeming friendly. “That’s my name,” Goodnight said. “What can I for you gents?”

    “You killed a friend of ours,” the man in front said. “We’re here for retribution.”

    “Fellows like you killed a lot of friends of mine,” Goodnight said. “I think we should call it even. Anyhow, your side won.”

    “Yeah, well, it seems that’s not enough to put cocky scum like you in their place.” The man stepped forward and that was it; already on edge, Goodnight drew, the muzzle of his revolver aimed at the man’s chest.

    “Now, you consider very carefully what you want to do next,” Goodnight said. “The sheriff here knows me; he’s gonna believe me if I tell him I shot you boys in self-defense, and he’s gonna believe me if I tell him you made the first move.”

    “Not if you don’t make it to speaking to him,” the man said, and then he charged. He was only a few feet away, and Goodnight’s mind was clouded from the brandy, his hands moving slower than usual; he had forgotten to cock his gun and by the time he unsuccessfully fired and then cocked his weapon, the man was slamming into him with the force of a locomotive, knocking him straight off the porch and down the steps, where he landed, stunned, on the hard dirt street, pinned down by his bear-like adversary, his revolver skittering through the dust and landing out of reach.

    “You think no one was gonna care that you were picking off our men from some hidey-hole where no one could get to you?” the man snarled, his face inches from Goodnight’s. He easily pinned down the smaller man’s arms, digging a knee into Goodnight’s stomach until he coughed, gasping for air, his struggles to escape growing weaker. “Thought they were just pawns, not men, didn’t you, you bastard?” He drew back a fist, driving it into the side of Goodnight’s jaw with such force he heard the joint pop and his whole head throbbed, thrown to the side.

   “George Winthrope,” the man said almost reverently, throwing another punch to Goodnight’s nose. The crack rang out and instantly Goodnight felt the hot stream of blood streaming down his upper lip, the acrid, metallic taste of blood filling his mouth as a dull throbbing ache radiated out from the site of the blow. The man lifted him by the shoulders and slammed him back down in the dirt. His face blurred in and out of focus above Goodnight but his words were unmistakeable. “He was my like my brother, you coward! You shot him! He was seventeen, he was a private, he wasn’t gonna get much done in that damn war!” His words had risen to a shout, their impact much more painful that the blows that came with every accent in his tone.

    “I’m sorry,” Goodnight slurred through the fog in his mind and the blood pooling in his mouth. He coughed weakly, repeating a little louder. “I’m sorry.”

    “Sorry doesn’t bring him back!” the man bellowed, raising his fist again.

    “Neither will your going to jail,” another voice said, calm and steady, demanding attention.

    The man looked back, as did his friends, but Goodnight could not find the strength even to lift his head. “War’s over, boys,” the same voice continued. “This ain’t in your hands anymore.”

    “He killed-” the man on Goody started.

    “I heard,” the voice said.

    “You don’t understand-”

    “You might be surprised. Now git.” No one moved. A shift of leather, a metallic click, a cocked pistol. “I said git.”

    The weight moved off Goodnight; the vague blur of the face over him was replaced by the night sky. Three sets of heavy footsteps moved away, and one set approached. “You all right there?”

    “I… I think so,” Goodnight said, pushing himself into a sitting position and wincing as his light head pounded. A hand reached out to him, and he looked up, startled.

    The man nodded at his outstretched hand. “Take it. Get up.”

    Goodnight grabbed the man’s hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He stumbled, almost collapsing again before the other man steadied him with one hand on his upper arm. “Who are you?” Goodnight asked.

    “Name’s Sam Chisolm. I’m a duly sworn warrant officer. You are?”

    “Goodnight Robicheaux,” Goodnight said, missing the look of recognition on Sam’s face as he turned to the side to spit out some of the mess of blood still turning his mouth bitter. “Why… why’d you help me?”

    He looked up, his blue eyes meeting Sam’s dark ones. “The war’s over,” Sam said simply.

    “But I had it coming,” Goodnight protested.

    “You did,” Sam said. “Doesn’t mean vigilantes should serve justice. All of us killed someone’s friend; doesn’t give us the right to break the law. Peace has been made. Break that, and you get what’s coming to you. There was no call for them to start things.”

    Goodnight nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”

    “You live around here?” Sam asked.

    “Just a mile outside town,” Goodnight replied.

    “All right then,” Sam said. “Let’s go.”

    “Why?” Goodnight asked. “I mean, why are you going with me?”

    “I’m not confident you can stay on your horse by yourself,” Sam said and Goodnight looked away, embarrassed. He knew just as much as Sam did that it was true.

    “Well, do you need a place to stay?” Goodnight asked. “I owe you one.”

    Sam shrugged. “All right.”

* * *

    Goodnight knew he was late getting home, especially since the ride back had taken so long, and contrary to the usual, there were lights on in the windows as they rode up the road to the house. Goodnight almost fell out of the saddle as he started to dismount outside the stable, but managed to land with some rough semblance of grace, which was, however, still clumsy in comparison to Sam’s easy dismount.

    Goodnight was just taking off his horse’s saddle when he heard the stable door open and turned to see Eliza enter in in bare feet and a nightdress, her lips dropping open when she saw her husband’s condition. “Goody!” she cried, crossing the stable in quick steps, walking straight past Sam to stop in front of Goodnight, her eyes skimming over his numerous wounds. “What happened?”

    “I… Some men confronted me; I had- I had killed one man’s friend in the War and they came after me. Mr. Chisolm here likely saved my life.”

   Emma turned to Sam, saying curtly, “Thank you, Mr. Chisolm. If you’ll follow me, I’ll have one of the maids get you to a room; I need to take care of my husband.”

    “Of course, Mrs. Robicheaux,” Sam said courteously.

    Eliza wrapped an arm around Goodnight’s waist and he leaned against her, letting her support him as they walked out of the stable, Sam close behind.

    “Thanks again, Mr. Chisolm,” Goodnight said as they entered the house and Eliza summoned a maid to take Sam to a room.

    “Call me Sam,” Sam said. “And you’re welcome.”

    “How much pain are you in?” Eliza asked as she and Goodnight slowly ascended the stairs.

    “Not a whole lot,” he said. “I drank and I’m not feeling all too acutely right now.”

    “That’s for the best,” she said. “Your nose, well…”

    “It’s broken, I know,” he replied.

    “This must have been brutal, eh?” she asked sympathetically, patting the edge of the bed and he sat down as she lit a lamp.

    “It wasn’t too good,” he admitted.

    She nodded, and he could tell by the stiffness in her shoulders and the tenseness in her movements how worried she was. “I won’t go back there for now,” he offered, hoping his words would relax her somewhat.

    “Honestly, this is the least of my concerns about you right now,” she said, and he cocked his head slightly, confused. “I hate to see you hurt, and I know you’re in pain. But your body will heal, and I can help it do so. But I know the worst of it is in your head and there’s nothing I can do to help with that.” Her eyes met his briefly before returning to focusing on unbuttoning his shirt. She eased off his shirt and vest at the same time, wincing when she saw the dark bruises blooming across his torso.

    “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I can handle it; it’s not something you need to worry about. You just focus on keeping yourself and the baby healthy.”

    “I can’t help worrying about it,” she said. “All right, the stuff on your torso isn’t too big a deal unless…” She gently felt around his ribs. “None of that hurts too bad?”

    He shook his head.

    “Okay, good. I’m going to set your nose then. It doesn’t look too crooked so I don’t think this will be terrible. Are you ready?”

    Goodnight nodded, and Eliza gently pinched the bones of his nose between two fingers, pushing them back into position. He grimaced, his jaw clenching as blinding white pain shot through his face, the sound of the bones grinding reverberating through his skull. When she let go his eyes were watering and he blinked rapidly, giving her a tired smile. “Thanks.”  
    “You’re welcome,” she said. “Don’t bump that; the bones need to stay in place. I’m not done with you; let me get some clean water and rags.”

    He nodded, leaning back against the headboard a little as she walked out of the room.

    When she returned he was fast asleep, his head lolling back and his mouth hanging open slightly, peaceful and vulnerable, all the worries ironed out of his expression in the early, dreamless stages of his sleep. She sat down on the edge of the bed, dipping a clean rag in the basin of water she’d set on the nightstand, and got to work cleaning the cuts and scrapes on his face. He mumbled something in his sleep, his head tipping to one side, and Eliza reached up to stop him from waking himself up, gently guiding his head back upright until it steadied.

    He didn’t rouse as she cleansed the cuts and scrapes, and that was an indication of how truly exhausted he was; usually he was a light sleeper, awoken by the lightest touch or noise, and now she was prodding around what had to be quite painful wounds and he wasn’t stirring in the slightest.

    When she was finally content that all the scrapes were clean and no serious damage had been done, she set aside the rag she had been using and sat there for a moment, a sudden rush of tears welling up in her eyes. Helpless, that was what she was, powerless to pull him out of the pit he was sliding into, unable to do anything but watch as the light of youth and hope in his bright eyes slowly dulled. Even as she watched the peace began to slip away from him, his brows drawing together, his lips twitching, forming silent words.

    Eliza slipped forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him, one hand on the back of his neck guiding his head to rest on her shoulder. “Just sleep, Goody,” she murmured. “Sleep.”

    “Eliza?” his voice was weak, uncertain.

    “It’s me,” she reassured him and he just nodded slowly, his arms wrapping around her waist.

    “I don’t want to dream tonight,” he said softly. “Don’t let me sleep, Eliza.”

    She just nodded, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to stop the tears that were beginning to overflow. They’d been sitting like that for a few minutes when she felt his breathing settle into a regular rhythm, deep and even, and she shook him gently. “Goody.” He jerked slightly, sitting up straighter, kneading his tired eye with the heels of his hands. “I’ll go make some coffee,” she said, standing.

    “You should go to bed,” he said. “I’m sorry… I-I’ll be fine.”

    She shook her head. “No.”

* * *

    Dawn rose dewy and gray, the pale beams of sunlight finding the Robicheauxs huddled on the top step of the porch with a blanket wrapped around them, each with a mug in hand, and an empty coffee pot sitting on the step next to Goodnight’s feet. Goodnight was far past the point of sleepiness, instead a profound exhaustion had nested deep inside him, coiled around his cells, untouchable.

    But when Eliza kissed his cheek and rested her head on his shoulder, his smile was genuine, and when he took her hand in his, the warmth of her familiar fingers and the relief of the dreamless night pushing back the tide a little more.

    “Shall we go eat something?” he asked, and she nodded, stretching as she stood up.

    Goodnight just looked up at her, watching the way the sunlight made her hair gleam as it streamed in untamed cascades down her back. “What?” she asked.

    “You could have had any man you wanted, you know,” he said. “You’re kind, you’re thoughtful, funny, smart, not to mention drop-dead gorgeous. I could go on. I never really understood why you chose me.”

    She reached out her hands and he stood, setting his coffee cup on the porch railing, and took her hands in his own.

    “That one’s easy to answer.”

    “Oh?” He squinted slightly, looking out from under his brows as the rising sun glared in his eyes.

    She nodded. “Sure is.”

    He loosely wrapped his arms around her waist, turning them away from the sun slightly. “Do me a favor and enlighten me.”

    “It’s because I love you,” she said, reaching up to cup his cheek with her hand, her pinky resting along the line of his jaw and her thumb stroking back and forth beneath his eye. He turned his head slightly and kissed the palm of her hand, murmuring against her skin,

    “I promise you the man you married is still in here somewhere.”

    “The man I married is right in front of me,” she said firmly and his lips tugged upward of their own accord, his arms pulling her a little closer. “Got that?”

    He nodded, a chuckle escaping him before he lightly pecked her lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

    “Ready to eat?” she asked.

    “Yep.”

    Just as they turned to go inside, the front door swung open, and one of the maids stepped out, a tray of food in her hands, with Sam behind her. “Oh, good morning, Miss Eliza, Mr. Robicheaux,” she said, bobbing a curtsey. “Mr. Chisolm asked to eat outside, so… I’m sorry to interrupt.”

    “You didn’t,” Goodnight said, giving Eliza’s hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. “Good morning, Mr. Chisolm.”

    “Morning,” Sam said. “Thank you for letting me sleep here. I’ll consider us even, Mr. Robicheaux.”

    “Please call me Goodnight,” Goodnight said.

    “Then make sure you call me Sam.”

    “I can do that,” Goodnight replied.

    “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Goody; I’m going to freshen up,” Eliza said, and he nodded, his gaze lingering fondly on her for a moment as she disappeared inside the house before looking back to Sam.

    “Did you fight in the War?” Goodnight asked as the two men sat down on the pair of rocking chairs that faced out toward the road.

    “I did,” Sam said. “Opposite side as you, though.”

    “I figured,” Goodnight said.

    “How long were you in?” Sam asked.

    “The whole damn thing,” Goodnight replied, shaking his head. “Not a single good thing out of it except meeting my wife. And you?”

    “Same as you- start to finish,” Sam said. “I wanted to see it through as long as I could.” He took a bite of the bacon on his plate and Goodnight didn’t speak for a few moments, watching a robin swoop low over the grass.

    “Where are you from?” he asked finally.

    “Lincoln, Kansas,” Sam said. “And yourself?”

    “New Orleans, born and raised.”

    “Then how’d you end up here?” Sam asked.

    “My company stayed the winter in ‘61. I married Eliza during the War, and we’ve been here since it ended. How about you, you got a family?”

    Sam shook his head. “Haven’t been in the same place long since a long time ago.”

    Goodnight nodded. “Someone chasing you?”

    Sam looked at him keenly. “Not quite.” He took a sip from his cup of coffee, but Goodnight didn’t look away for a few seconds, considering the man’s words. “You were running from something yourself last night,” Sam commented.

    Goodnight nodded slowly. “I was.”

    “Did you escape?”

    “It’s hard to escape yourself,” Goodnight said. “Seems only death achieves that, and I’ve been running from that too.”

    “I don’t know a single man who lived through that war and came out quite whole,” Sam said.

    “Did you?” Goodnight asked.

    “I wasn’t in the first place,” Sam replied. His gaze was contemplative as it rested on the worn floorboards of the porch.

    No family… Goodnight couldn’t piece together the story yet, but he could begin to connect the details. This man knew loss all too well. “And you’re a bounty hunter?”

    “Warrant officer,” Sam said. “And you?”

    Goodnight chuckled. “No employment at the moment. Just taking some time with my family. Eliza’s going to have a baby and I’m…” He shook his head. “Like you said. I came back in one piece physically, but my mind…” He trailed off.

    “I got lucky in that respect,” Sam said. “But I know people. I’ve seen things.”

    Goodnight nodded grimly. “Haven’t we all?” He slumped in his seat a little, putting his feet up on the porch railing.

    “Some more than others,” Sam said. “I heard you fought at Antietam.”

    “You heard that, eh?” he asked, surprised, and then added playfully, “I see my reputation proceeds me.”

    “You haven’t been out much, have you, then?” Sam said. “You’re a bit of a legend, least in these parts.”

    “Really?” Goodnight said incredulously. “For what?”

    “Fearless leader. Inspiration to your men. Crack shot. I’ve heard you called the Angel of Death.”

    Goodnight’s smile faded at the final title. “That last one…”

    “Title you deserved, not one you wanted?” Sam asked.

    Goodnight considered his words for a few moments and then nodded. “The way I see it, I was doing my duty. I’d rather be remembered for that than what it was I did.”

    “Duty is a heavy thing,” Sam remarked.

    “Ain’t that the truth,” Goodnight said. Since the war ended, he hadn’t talked to anyone about his time as a soldier, and while talking to Sam pulled the familiar regrets and pains back to the surface of his already muddied thoughts, it also felt like pressure was slowly starting to be released, the tremendous buildup of unexplainable horrors that he had observed and that no one at the Cox manor could have understood lessening just slightly. Sam made him feel a little less alone, a little less alien. A hand to hold in the dark was better than to be alone with it, even if the sun still refused to rise.

    It was then that the door opened and Eliza walked out, a tray in each hand, handing one to Goodnight, who thanked her, before sitting down on the porch swing next to her husband. “Did I interrupt?” she asked into the silence and Goodnight said quickly,

    “Not at all.”

    “The subject needed changing anyway,” Sam added.

    Eliza nodded, her gaze moving to Goodnight, who gave her a small smile that eased her newfound concern about whatever they had been talking about until she came out. “How long are you in town for?” she asked Sam, more in an attempt to make conversation than because of actual interest in the answer.

    “I’ll be leaving today,” he said. “I came out here serving a warrant, but I took care of that yesterday.”

    “You’re welcome to stay longer if you like, Mr. Chisolm,” Eliza offered and Goodnight nodded in agreement.

    “Thank you for that, Mrs. Robicheaux,” Sam said. “I’d better be going soon though. There’s always more criminals to catch.”

    Eliza nodded and Goodnight said, “If you’re ever in the area, though…”

    “I’ll stop by,” Sam said, and took the last bite of his toast before standing, dusting the crumbs off his pants as he looked for a place to set his tray.

    “Table’s fine,” Goodnight said as he stood likewise, setting down his own breakfast. “I can have someone get your horse ready.”

    “I prefer to do it myself,” Sam said. “But thank you.”

    “Thank you, Mr. Chisolm,” Eliza, who had stood as well, said. “We owe you.”

    “Not a bit,” Sam said. “I got a place to sleep out of the deal, and, I think,” His eyes shifted to Goodnight, “a friend.” He then tipped his hat respectfully to Eliza. “Mrs. Robicheaux.”

    “Safe travels,” she said and he nodded in thanks before turning to Goodnight.

    “I’ll go back to the stable with you,” Goodnight said, and he and Sam descended the steps side by side, following the path that led around the side of the house to the stable. “What are you onto next?” Goodnight asked as Sam began to prepare his horse.

    “Missouri,” Sam said. “Got another warrant to serve there on an outlaw from Texas. Are you looking for a job, Goodnight?”

    Goodnight frowned slightly, surprised by the question. “I suppose after the baby is born, yes, I will be.”

    “You might want to consider this line of work. It pays well, and you get a lot of freedom. I have a hard time envisioning a man such as yourself working at a trade,” Sam said.

    “As do I,” Goodnight acknowledged. “Well, I’ll think about it. I don’t know if…” He trailed off. He didn’t need to say it.

    “I understand,” Sam said, his eyes meeting Goodnight’s for a moment before he returned to the task of saddling his horse. They didn’t talk again until the creature was in full tack and Sam walked it out of the stable, into the still, damp morning, the heat of the rising sun promising a scorching afternoon. Sam mounted, tipping the brim of his hat down a little to shield his eyes, and looked away, a contemplative expression on his face before turning back to Goodnight. “All of us that made it through our own Hell need rebuilding just as much as the country does, he said finally. “But what we lost in the fire, we’ll find in the ashes.” Then he tipped his hat and spurred his horse on and Goodnight watched as the animal trotted down the road, Sam’s silhouette cut clear against the pale morning sky.

* * *

    “Any better?” Goodnight asked, pulling back a runaway strand of hair and tucking it in with the rest in his other hand. He had woken to find Eliza heaving into the basin she kept next to their bed for this purpose, and immediately he had been with her, pulling back her long hair, one hand rubbing gently up and down her shuddering back as she vomited.  

    Eliza nodded, setting down the basin and wiping her mouth on a handkerchief before leaning back weakly against Goodnight. “Sorry about that,” she said, coughing when her voice came out rough, and grimacing at the acrid flavor in her mouth.

    “Nothing to apologize for,” Goodnight said. “You wait here and I’ll get you some water, all right?”

    She nodded, sitting forward a little and Goodnight slipped off the bed, jogging out of the room and downstairs to get her some water. When he returned, she was less pale but still readily took the glass from him, downing the whole thing before setting it on the nightstand. “I’ll just empty this out; you go back to sleep,” she said, reaching for the basin.

    “No, no,” Goodnight said, quickly moving to pick it up before she could. “I’ve got it. I’ll be back.”

    When he returned, she was fast asleep again, and he climbed into bed next to her, settling in close to her growing form. Just a few months left until their family would be one person larger

* * *

    “Whatcha thinking about?”

    Goodnight glanced at Eliza, taking her hand in his as he did. “I’m considering something Sam told me.”

    “Oh?” Eliza asked. “What’s that?”

    “The possibility of being a warrant officer like him,” he said. “Sounds like I could make some good money.”

    “But what about…” Eliza hesitated, and Goodnight reached for the poker next to the fireplace, prodding the logs into a better position. “Wouldn’t you have to shoot? And wouldn’t it be better if you could find a job that wouldn’t put you in so much danger?”

    “It would be,” he said. “But when it comes down to it…” The poker clanked as he let it rest on the edge of the fireplace. His shoulders slumped. “Fighting’s the only thing I’m good at. I’m a good shot, I can track a man down. I can do it and get paid.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I survived the whole war; I’m sure I can make it through tracking down a few bandits.”

    “But won’t this make things worse in your head?” Eliza asked. Cloth rustled as she shifted forward to sit next to him, one arm wrapped around his upper back, the other hand resting on his near shoulder.

    “It could,” Goodnight said, finally looking up at her. “But it’s worth a try. I could always stop.”

    Eliza didn’t speak for a few moments, considering. “To be frank, I don’t like the sound of it. But we got plenty of time to think and talk. Well, that is…” Her next words were tentative. “You weren’t planning on doing this right away, were you?”

    Goodnight looked at her, shocked. “Good Lord, of course not! It’d be until the child is born and then at least another few months.”

    “Oh!” she said. “Good.”

    “Eliza,” he said. “I know I haven’t been quite myself recently, but I’m going to stay with you as much as I can. The only reason I’d go away is if we think it’s the best way to support our family. I know your father’s starting to think of me as a freeloader-”

    “Goody,” Eliza cut in but he shook his head.

    “He’s right.”

    “Goody-” she said again.

    “He’s right,” he repeated, this time more firmly. “It’s all right. It’s just the truth.”

    “It may be, but my parents both still love you, Goodnight.”

    Goodnight smiled. “I appreciate that, and I feel the same way. But… I know they lost a lot, and I never wanted to live off somebody else’s money. I also don’t want you or your parents to think for a second that was even in my head when I decided I wanted to marry you.”

    “I don’t think that,” Eliza said. “I never did. Honest.”

    “Really?” Goodnight said.

    “Really,” she said.

    “Good. Anyway. Give it some thought.”  
    “I will,” she said, but her expression was somber even when she lay down to rest her head in his lap, the warm light of the flames playing across her face.

    “I’m sorry,” Goodnight said. “I would hate to put you through that again.”

    “It’s all right,” Eliza said. “We’ll do what we have to.” Now she gave him a small smile, reaching out to take his hand.

* * *

    It was late on a fall night and Goodnight was just unbuttoning his shirt to put on his nightclothes when Eliza, who was sitting on the edge of the mattress, brushing her hair, shrieked and Goodnight whipped around, his hand reaching for the holstered pistol on his desk. “What is it?”

    “The baby’s coming!”

    The revolver clattered on the wood as Goodnight dropped it. “What!?”

    “Goody!” she grimaced, a gasp of pain escaping her lips and he rushed across the room to her, the worn carpet slippery under his bare feet.

    “What do I do?” he asked desperately, his hands moving erratically from her waist to her shoulders and then urging her to lie down, though the edge of the bed was sodden.

    “Get my mother,” she said. “And Martha!”

    “Okay, I’ll be right back,” Goodnight said, focusing on the task at hand as he ran out of the room, dashing down the hall to the Coxes’ bedroom. He knocked hard on the door and Mr. Cox’s voice called,

    “Who is it?”

    “It’s Goodnight, sir, Eliza’s gone into labor and she’s asking for Mrs. Cox!” Goodnight was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet, his body coiled tight as a drawn bow, unstoppable energy coursing through him.

     Moments later the door swung open to reveal Eliza’s parents on the other side, Mrs. Cox hastily wrapping a shawl around herself while Mr. Cox slid on his glasses, his hair mussed and his eyes tired.

    “Is there anything I should do?” Mr. Cox asked as his wife stepped out of the bedroom.

    “Find Martha and send her in. Other than that, no,” she said.

    “How about me- what should I do?” Goodnight said, almost having to jog to keep up with Mrs. Cox as she walked down the hall in long strides, rolling up her sleeves as she went.

    “You stay out of the way,” she said, “There’s no room in there. We’ll call you if we need you.” And with that, she went through the door to Goodnight and Eliza’s room and closed it behind her, cutting off the start of Goodnight’s protest. He had rarely seen Mrs. Cox in such a businesslike, no-nonsense mood before, but she was quite formidable when she was in it, and he knew there would be no talking her into letting him stay. Instead he slid slowly to the floor, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up and his elbows resting on them, his forearms hanging limp in front of him.

    After a few minutes Martha came down the hall with Mr. Cox close behind, and though she rushed into the room without speaking to him, her quick, reassuring smile at Goodnight lightened his heart, even if only for a moment. Then the door closed again, leaving him in the hall with Mr. Cox. He started to push himself to his feet out of respect for the older man, but Mr. Cox shook his head, leaning back against the railing that ran along the edge of the floor that skirted the open-topped staircase. “I understand what you’re feeling, Goodnight.”

    Goodnight hadn’t been thinking about it, but it made sense. He looked up, saying nothing, prompting Mr. Cox to speak more.

    “Martha and my mother delivered Eliza,” he said. “She’ll be fine.”

    “Thank you for saying that, sir,” Goodnight said.

    Mr. Cox nodded. “Care for a pipe?”

    “I… Er, that would be nice.”

    Mr. Cox nodded and walked down the hall, his footsteps echoing in the quiet house. Goodnight could faintly hear voices on the other side of the door and pressed his ear to it, but it seemed just then all seemed to grow quiet except for the sound of footsteps and rustling cloth.

    Soon Mr. Cox returned, sitting down on the floor next to Goodnight. He handed the younger man a pipe and offered him his well-worn leather tobacco pouch. Goodnight thanked him, filling the bowl of the pipe and waiting as Mr. Cox did likewise before lighting both pipes. Goodnight took a deep drag of the sweet-smelling smoke, concentrating on breathing in and out as the air began to grow hazy.

    “Thank you for this,” he said after a few minutes had passed and he felt his pulse slowly beginning to return to normal.

    “Of course,” Mr. Cox said. “She’s your wife, but she’s still my daughter. We may as well suffer together.”

    Goodnight nodded slowly, breathing in another chestful of smoke.

    The sounds from the bedroom ebbed and flowed and when at last Goodnight couldn’t take it anymore and burst through the door, asking how things were going, he was immediately pushed out by Martha and brusquely assured that everything was fine before the door was closed in his face. But he had gotten a brief glimpse of Eliza, and though she was clearly in pain, she was sticking it out.

    When Mr. Cox looked up at him with eyebrows raised in question, Goodnight just nodded reassuringly, resuming his spot next to the older man.

     It was nearly sunrise when he heard the unmistakeable sounds of Eliza hurting and every one went through him viscerally, the sound almost tangible, like he himself was the one in pain. He could no longer sit still, and pushed himself to his feet, puffing agitatedly at the many times refilled pipe still between his lips. Urgency and nervousness made him keep moving, but the helplessness in the pit of his stomach constantly reminded him there was nothing he could do.

    The instant the door opened, he was there, every precipitous and forceful emotion pushing up into his throat. “Well?” he asked Martha, his eyes searching her face for some indication of how things had gone. And then her lips broke into a smile and she pushed the door open farther, stepping aside to allow him in.

    “See for yourself, Mr. Robicheaux.”

    He didn’t realize he had dropped the pipe (or that Martha had to quickly stamp out the still-burning tobacco so it wouldn’t catch the rug on fire); he just walked slowly across the room, tears of joy welling in his eyes as he sat down on the edge of the bed next to Eliza, who gave him a tired but very real smile. He grinned back, his gaze shifting downward to the tiny bundle in her arms.

    “This is…” he broke off, reaching up a hand and carefully, gently, touching the tiny hand that peeked out of the blankets, the fingers so tiny and delicate in comparison to his much larger, weathered ones.

    “He looks like you,” Eliza said, and Goodnight looked up at her.

    “He?”

    “It’s a boy,” she said, her grin so big it crinkled the corners of her eyes.

    “Oh, Eliza-” the sob burst out of him before he could muffle it and then he just laughed, utterly jubilant, moving to sit with his back against the pillows next to his wife, one arm going automatically around her shoulders and one cradling the baby alongside hers.

     “Do you want to hold him?” she asked and he nodded eagerly, tentatively taking the tiny child in his arms when she held him out. Another tear traced down his cheek and he turned his head to kiss Eliza’s forehead, still barely taking his eyes off the baby even as he did.

    “How are you feeling?” he asked finally.

    “Happy,” she said and he chuckled, impulsively kissing her cheek.

    “Good work.”

    She snuggled a little closer, watching her husband with a loving smile on her face as he continued to marvel at the baby. “Is the name we thought of still sounding good to you?” she asked, reaching over to tuck the blanket a little closer around the baby.

    Goodnight nodded. “Even better now I think of him being the one to have it.”

    “Mama, Papa,” Eliza called. “You can come in!” The door swung open and the new grandparents entered, both positively glowing. “We’d like to introduce you to William Rafael Robicheaux.”

* * *

    Midnights up with Eliza tending to the crying baby, mornings spent in warm snuggling with the sleeping little boy on one of their chests, afternoons taking him out on circuits of the fields, or simply sitting and watching him sleep in his cradle- life was filled with new bustle, and a new intensity of love Goodnight didn’t know his soul could hold, an amount of joy he didn’t think his scarred heart could comprehend.

     One of the few practical benefits of having a baby was that Goodnight was rarely asleep long enough to have nightmares, and when Eliza was too exhausted to get the baby to sleep, he was always willing and ready. William needed him in a way that no one else did, and it brought a new drive, a new sense of purpose and intention to life, a new vigor when he got out of bed in the morning, no matter how long the night had been, or why it had been so.

    His mind needed the time, needed the joy, even if it only patched over his holes rather than closing them, and he hoped some time with the new career he was fairly sure he would pursue could help him smite down the terrors that burned him from the inside out, could re-accustom him to the sounds and thoughts that triggered periods of inexpressible terror, could chase away the hallucinations that, when he saw them in full, seemed as real as the war he’d fought in, but still danced unbidden at the corners of his vision at times throughout the day.

    So after weeks of long discussion, the morning came for him to depart to Little Rock, where he would be licensed by city officials as a warrant officer. It never got easier leaving Eliza, and it was no easier now that he left William as well. But it was the right decision, he knew that much, and that helped the heartsickness a little.

    He looked back as he reached the end of the road leading up to Cox Manor, taking off his hat and nodding once to the familiar figures on the porch. A silent promise left his lips, to them, to himself.

_I’ll be home soon._


End file.
